


your cabbage'll get rearranged

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [90]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Play, Donuts, F/M, Food Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7814521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the importance of a healthy diet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your cabbage'll get rearranged

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: Sometime, in the heat of the moment, Clara mentions something about salad tossing, Twelve attempts dirty talk but mayhaps he has taken it too literally and misses the fact that it's a euphemism?

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” Clara peeled herself away from the mattress, sweat-soaked sheets sticking to her skin.  
  
“Uh. Kind of.” The Doctor stared down at himself, as if re-assessing the fact that he had a physical body that occasionally needed sustenance, and finding it mildly baffling.  
  
“Deep-fried carbohydrates,” she said, slouching off the bed and making her way towards where she hoped, fingers crossed, the en-suite would still be. “The opposite of a salad. But maybe some salad-tossing later, if you’re lucky, heyooo.” She winked and shut the door behind her.  
  
“Yes, that’s. A thing, surely,” he said, voice muffled behind the door.

  
  
  
  
They sat on the curb outside what he claimed was the top-rated doughnut shop in the galaxy. Cardboard box on the ground between them. He kept taking a bite and then putting the rest back in the box, until she glared and he shrugged and then settled down with a powdered-sugar-and-jam number, obscenely licking the filling out.  
  
“Thanks,” she said, because he’d brought her to the best doughnuts in the Sol System circa 3015, and “You’re welcome,” because she’d paid.  
  
“Yes,” he replied, going cross-eyed trying to locate the smudge of jam on the tip of his nose. “So you like salads, then.”  
  
“I tolerate them.”  
  
“The. Salad-tossing thing, I mean.”  
  
She laughed, half-choking on her cruller. “Sometimes, yeah. Right, remember, we had that talk, about the, you know-” She shoved the doughnut into her mouth and pantomimed fucking, like so, index finger pumping into the circle made by her thumb and forefinger.  
  
“Human sexuality,” he intoned.  
  
“Yeah. There’s lots of stuff, that’s just one among thousands. But if you’re curious, I’m definitely…” She stopped, stared at him.  
  
So help her, even with his face covered in jam and powdered sugar, mouth chipmunk-full of pastry, she still found him devastatingly attractive. And she would, she would like to do that, to him.  
  
“I’d be alright giving it a go,” she finished, awkwardly.  
  
He wedged another doughnut into his face, chocolate icing with sprinkles. “Hokay,” he mumbled, sprinkles spraying.

  
  
  
She set their room up, and then reset it, and then tore it apart and changed the linens and readjusted the lights and thought about crying. Wound up on the floor, in her blouse and socks, mentally going through the list of Things That Were Okay To Do With The Doctor. He was still so weird about it, was all. Not about her - he clearly enjoyed her - but about himself, as a brain in a body and that body venturing beyond his control. He wasn’t entirely comfortable existing on the physical plane. Even blow jobs were sort of too much, for him. So this, then. This meant something, surely.  
  
Were the pillows right? Should she get different pillows? The TARDIS had so many, for whatever reason. And the lights, right, dimmer, surely. The temperature? Maybe warmer?  
  
Her derailing train of thought was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door.  
  
“Yes,” she said. ‘Come in’ would have been the correct response; she had not said that.  
  
The Doctor shuffled in, holding a wooden bowl. And several jars of salad dressing, and a pair of tongs.  
  
“The fuck?” she asked, politely.  
  
“You wanted to do the thing,” he replied, juggling until the tongs were in his hands. He clicked them twice and then gestured.  
  
Oh. Right. Obviously.  
  
“It was a euphemism,” she said slowly. Still on the floor. He towered over her, him and his bowl. She could smell the radishes.  
  
“Okay. Yes. Right. Sorry. Um.” He clicked the tongs again, one-two-three. “For what?”  
  
She sighed heavily. “Eating arse.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Not food. Sexually.” How specific would she have to get? Very, probably.  
  
“Are you. A cannibal?” Hands still twitching at the tongs.  
  
“I just said - no, no, I’m not. Put that down, will you?”  
  
He set the bowl and the jars and the tongs - with a final mournful clack - down on the bedside table, and sat down next to her.  
  
“There’s spinach,” he said, defensively. “For the vitamins. Also lots of cheese, because I like cheese.” He did like cheese an awful lot. He was chewing on something, probably cheese. Some croutons as well, going by the sound.  
  
“It’s my fault. I should have been more specific, or. I know slang isn’t your strong suit.”  
  
“It’s fine. Not your fault. So if you don’t want all this-” he gestured grandly - “delicious ranch dressing. What, then?”  
  
Should she? Was it worth it? She shrugged to herself, then leaned in close to him, hand cupped around his ear as she whispered what it was, exactly, that she’d meant.  
  
She leaned back. His eyes were wide as saucers. He produced another wedge of cheese from somewhere and bit into it pensively.  
  
“But only if you’re comfortable with it,” she said.  
  
He chewed, swallowed. “Worth a try. Especially if we can still use the ranch dressing? It’s just that I carried all of it down, and it’s quite good.”  
  
“If being covered in sauce helps, fine.” She reached up, grabbed a bottle. Flicked the lid suggestively as he unbuttoned his trousers.

  
  
  
(“Oh,” he said. Face down on the floor, wiping ranch dressing off his mouth and helplessly bucking as she spread his arse cheeks apart, tongueing the sensitive skin there, probing as gently and politely as she could into his arsehole. “I’m the salad. I get it, now.”  
  
She giggled and he twitched, moaning.  
  
“No tongs please,” he ground out. “I’m not - that’s too much.”  
  
“Right-o,” she said, again wondering what in the fuck went on in his head, and dove back in.)


End file.
